It's Only a Paper Moon
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: As she sang, it occurred to her that she was naught but the paper moon.


_Say, it's only a paper moon, _

_Sailing over a cardboard sea. _

_But it wouldn't be make-believe,_

_If you believed in me_

**It's Only a Paper Moon**

Lena had always wanted to go to Paris. But now, walking through the streets of the city, she wished it was under better circumstances.

She and Emily had talked about coming here. When, or if they got married ("when" and "if" varied on the time of day and their circumstances), whatever trip they planned, Paris had to factor into it. Paris, the City of Light. The City of Love. The City of Culture. Paris, so named that the French had refused to risk damage to it in the Second World War. Paris, for which the French had laid down thousands of lives in the Omnic Crisis to protect their capital against a force that cared nothing for love, culture, or anything like that. Paris, which was situated across the channel, asking London "es-tu jaloux?"

Right now, she was missing Emily, if not London. Still, duty called. Overwatch called. More specifically, Winston had called, assigning her to head to Cabaret Luna, be there at 15:15 sharp, and wait to make contact. Who that contact was, he wouldn't say, as he wasn't 100% certain that the line couldn't be traced. All Lena had to do was wear an armband with the English flag on it, and her contact would recognise her. Lena had pointed out that tourists from the UK weren't uncommon, and that carrying the white and red wasn't exactly uncommon either, but Winston had just smiled and told her that the contact would know her.

Winston smiling was a good sign…mostly. Of course, that assassin she'd encountered in King's Row last year had smiled and…she blinked, and quickened her pace. She wasn't going to think about that. She wasn't even here for Talon, but rather, Null Sector. – a group that had been crushed in the UK years ago, and was now threatening to rear its ugly head in continental Europe. All she had to do was enter the establishment, take a seat towards the back, and wait. And if anything went wrong, she had a pulse pistol in her belt, and a chronal accelerator attached to her chest. Easy in, easy out.

Entering the establishment and taking a seat near the entrance, Lena reflected that "easy in, easy out" only held true about 50% of the time in her experience. Even Winston smiling had a higher success rate.

The cabaret was well lit, but at this time of day, only a few patrons were present. Mostly men and women far older than she was, likely having a lunch break. Quite a few of them were smoking as well. A few waiters were serving wine and clearing tables. At the far end of the room was a stage with a single omnic singing – female, Lena noticed, or at least built with the body of a female, and singing in a female voice.

"_Je ne ressens jamais rien, quand je suis loin de toi. Hors de ton étreinte, le monde un parking temporaire."_

Whatever the case, she could sing, Lena reflected, even if she didn't understand the lyrics.

"Vin, madam?"

"Hmm?" She looked up at the waiter that approached her.

"Puis-je vous procurer quelque chose, madame?"

"Oh, ah…" She cleared her throat. "De l'eau, s'il vous plait."

"Pardon?"

"L'eau."

"Pas du vin?"

"Pas d'eau."Lena opened her mouth and pointed down it. "Water."

"…of course, madam."

_You can speak English?!_

The waiter walked off, muttering something about _tourists _and _English_. Lena frowned, not only because of the waiter's antics, but she'd missed the last of the omnic's song. Scattered clapping echoed throughout the cabaret, and the singer let out a soft "merci" before heading off-stage.

"Votre eau, madame."

Lena nodded at the waiter, whose scowl hadn't disappeared yet. She took a sip and looked at her watch – 15:13. She'd arrived early, despite Winston's instructions. Had she blown this by doing so? She'd never done this kind of contact work before – up until now, her career had consisted of being a fighter pilot, being an Overwatch agent, making do with whatever temp work she could get in London, and then becoming an Overwatch agent, only with pay cheques coming from anonymous donors rather than the UN. Not that anyone actually used cheques nowadays, but-

"Excusez moi?"

She looked up, brought out of her reverie. Standing beside her was an omnic. Specifically, the omnic she'd seen on stage earlier.

"Seriez-vous celui qui s'appelle Tracer?"

"Um…" She took a breath, her mind racing faster than her accelerator. "Oui. Je veux dire ... tu es ..."

"Stop," said the omnic, changing language and accent immediately. "We're not going to use French."

"Pardon?"

She took a seat at the table opposite Lena and pulled out a cigarette. With a small flame igniting from the tip of her finger, she lit it, and held it just as any smoker would.

"Je m'appelle Luna," said the omnic. "My name is Luna."

"I know French," Lena murmured.

"And yet you can't speak it properly." She put the cigarette to where her mouth would have been if she were human. "Well, no matter. English is less beautiful a language, but just as functional." She paused, letting Lena sit there, and the cigarette consume oxygen. Lena tried to look at her watch without Luna noticing.

"It's 15:15. You arrived early, but better that than late."

Tried, and failed. So all that was left was the two of them to sit there in silence.

"You look confused," said Luna eventually.

"I…" Lena cleared her throat, wondering if it was best to just get down to business, or play the game – she could guess Luna was her contact, but if movies had taught her anything, it was that there was a rhyme and rhythm to this. But Luna was looking impatient (or 'looked' as emotive as an omnic could), and she had to say something, and-

"Think it's a bit unfair for you to quiz me on my French," Lena blurted out.

"Is it?" Luna asked.

"Well, yeah. You're an omnic. You can just download whatever language you want and speak it instantly."

"True," Luna said, tapping the cigarette, its ashes landing in the table's tray. "But then, what am I doing but pretending to smoke? I, who will never know the taste of poison running down my throat, or…" She fell silent, looking at the water Lena had. "Or knowing the feeling of water on my tongue."

"That isn't the same."

"You come to France, and you don't taste the wine?"

"That isn't-"

"Seriously," Luna said, stifling a laugh (or rather simulating a stifled laugh). "Who does that?"

"I don't drink," Lena said. "And I don't smoke."

"Really? Well, your loss."

"My loss?"

"I may not know the taste of water, wine, or tobacco, but I know their relevance to your kind. I can only conclude that they're worth it."

"Considering what smoking does to your lungs, not really."

"And considering that lung and throat cancer became preventable in the 2030s, a moot point." She took another fake puff. "Look around you, Miss Oxton. You think the good men and women of Paris are afraid of what enters their lungs?"

Lena looked around. A few more people had come in. All of them were drinking wine, ordering wine, or by her best guess, waiting for wine. And most of them had taken out cigarettes or cigars.

"Alright," Lena said. "You know why I'm here, so let's get down to it."

"So soon?" Luna asked. "Three minutes and forty-two seconds have passed since we began this conversation, and you-"

"Do you have it?" Lena asked.

Luna simulated a sigh, extinguishing her cigarette as she did so. Lena watched as she reached to the back of her head. There was a whir, and a second later, the hand came back, a data chip in hand.

"Information on Null Sector," said Luna, putting the chip in the centre of the table. "Numbers. Locations. Leaders."

Lena just looked at the chip.

"I've passed this information onto other groups as well," Luna said. "Still, they'd prefer to wait."

"And you?" Lena asked.

"I'd prefer Null Sector to be consigned to the ashtray of history where it belongs."

"And that means…"

"I understand that a giant gorilla is trying to reform Overwatch. Bon chance to you I say, if you can act without oversight or red tape."

Lena took up the chip, putting it between her two fingers. It seemed too good to be true. And in her experience, if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

"Why, though?" she murmured.

"I don't understand," Luna said.

"You're an omnic."

"An astute observation."

"Null Sector are omnics."

"Another astute observation."

"So I'm wondering why…" She trailed off. She could tell that Luna had got the hint. And as the omnic lit another cigarette, she could tell that she'd hit a nerve (or circuit, she supposed).

"It must be a nice view of the world…" Luna murmured. "The idea that every individual in a group will follow the same ideal."

"I'm just asking."

Luna dropped some ash into the tray. "Well, perhaps we shouldn't complain. I'm an omnic. Therefore, Null Sector believes that I believe what they believe."

"And do you?" Lena asked.

"You're suspicious," Luna said. "The monkey didn't tell me you were suspicious."

"Actually, Winston's a-"

"Which is good in this world," Luna said. "Or at least, if the right people are suspicious. Null Sector are so desperate that they'll sing like birds if I provide them just enough information to make them think I'm on their side." She raised the cigarette again. "Well, what of it? Null Sector isn't the first terrorist group to plague this continent, and I doubt it will be the last. In the meantime, I've accepted my role to get them to sing like birds, and do singing of my own." She extinguished the cigarette and got up. "Au revoir, Miss Oxton. I hope that you use the information I provided for you."

Her mind racing, Lena weighed her options. She figured she had a choice of a) leaving, and assuming the data was legit, b) getting Luna to stay and try reading her more, or c) other.

"I liked your singing by the way," she blurted out.

She wasn't sure if she'd chosen b or c.

"Did you now?" Luna asked.

"Yes. It was very…nice."

Right now, it was more c. Other. She liked other. Other was a good option.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Luna, taking a seat. "The establishment gets me to sing it at least once a day."

"And it is…?"

"_Ce n'est Qu'une Lune en Papier,"_ Luna said. "Or, as you might call it, _It's Only a Paper Moon_." She scoffed. "How appropriate then, that I sing those words."

"Why?" Lena asked.

"Because for all the joy I provide one's ears, their eyes know the truth," Luna said. "I, in the eyes of many, am not real. I'm incapable of writing my own songs, and could never do such a thing. I am, in the words of Yip Harburg and Billy Rose, only a paper moon."

Lena sat there for a moment before asking, "but can you write songs?"

Luna didn't say anything. She just reached into the back of her head and pulled out a second chip. "My legacy," she said. "More data on here than the chip I provided you earlier."

"And you're not allowed to sing them here?"

"The owners of Cabaret Luna cater to those of fine taste and high culture. I, as an omnic, can never aspire to create art of such calibre."

"That's…that's not…"

"Fair?" Luna asked.

"Well, yes."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what is fair? You were born into an unfair world. I was manufactured in an unfair world. I like to think that the true test of one's character is how we best make do, or better, make the world slightly less unfair." She got to her feet and put the chip back in her head. "Now I must bid you adieu and goodbye, Miss Oxton. I'm due back on stage in five minutes, twelve seconds, and this evening, I have a meeting with Null Sector, assuring them I've passed on false information to my contact."

Lena didn't say anything. She wanted to ask "and did you?" But no words came out. Not immediately. But as Luna walked off, as her heart raced and her tongue fluttered, she blurted out "you're not a paper moon."

"Exusez moi?" Luna asked, looking at Lena.

"I mean…as in…I think you should be able write and sing your own songs, and that if the owners of this place don't like it, they can shove it up their…arses!"

One of the waiters looked at her, but whether she understood the words, Lena couldn't say.

"Pardon my French," she murmured.

Luna chuckled. "You're pardoned," she said. She turned to leave, hesitated, and then looked back at Lena. "I know what you did in London," she said. "That's how I know that you, at least, have passed the test of character."

Lena said nothing. Partly because she didn't like talking about what happened that night. Partly because she had no idea how Luna even knew.

"Farewell, Miss Oxton."

Lena remained sitting there. Watching Luna go. Thinking about France. Music. Wine. Justice. The ideas that this city was known for, and the ideals it could never fully live up to.

She took a sip of her water and frowned.

It was bitter.


End file.
